Should Have Been Me
by HeyAssButtImBatman
Summary: It should have been Sherlock that fell off that cliff. After all, it was his fault that this whole thing had happened. But as it was, John was too good a friend to let Sherlock suffer, so he had taken the detectives place. But it should have been Sherlock, not John, lying unconscious in a hospital. John didn't deserve this. But maybe he could convince Sherlock that he didn't either
1. Chapter 1

John Watson was used to danger. He lived with Sherlock Holmes after all. But this was a whole new level of idiocracy.

"Sherlock, get down from there!" John yelled. His flatmate was climbing a rather large tree, trying to get a piece of evidence that he deemed vital to the case. But he was heavier than he looked, and the branches were thin. Not to mention that the tree was hanging completely vertical off of the side of a cliff.

"Just a minute, John!" Sherlock called back, not taking his eyes off of the glove wedged onto one of the tiny twigs at the end of the tree. But he really should have looked down, for if he had he may have noticed that the dirt holding the tree's roots in place was loosening, and that the tree would fall if he didn't come down.

John was looking, so he noticed these things.

"Sherlock, the tree is going to fall!" he called, but Sherlock had blocked him out and continued on. Desperate, John did the only rational thing. He pulled out his phone and called Lestrade.

"Greg! Send an ambulance to the Hanging Tree, now!"

"John, what's going on?"

"Just hurry!"

John ended the call and looked back at Sherlock. He was very far along on the branches, but the whole thing was loose now. Knowing that the ambulance would be too late, he wrapped his arms around the trunk and began to climb.

Being smaller than Sherlock, and having more experience with this sort of thing, he had soon reached the detective.

"Sherlock," he called, shaking the detective's arm. Sherlock didn't turn until he had grabbed the glove, but by then their combined weight had become too much for the poor tree. The tree shook, sliding down a little. Wide-eyed, Sherlock and John began to scramble back towards the safety of the cliff.

The tree slid further down the dirt wall and John knew that there was no way they would both make it. He grabbed Sherlock by his coat and hauled him over the last few branches, onto the cliff. That last movement sent the tree hurtling down the cliff towards the foaming river below, with one terrified John Watson hanging along for the ride.

()()()

Sherlock felt the tree shift again and fear coursed through him. Many times he had put his life on the line for the sake of a case, but it was usually another human who had his or her finger on the trigger, not gravity.

He felt something grab onto his coat and suddenly he was being yanked backwards, to land safely on the ground. John Watson wasn't so lucky. He released Sherlock's coat just as the whole tree fell. Sherlock only had time for one last look at his terrified best friend before he disappeared over the cliff.

"JOHN!" Sherlock dove too late, only managing to catch empty air. John managed to push off of the tree so that it wouldn't crush him when he landed before he and it splashed down into freezing rapids. Sherlock watched desperately for any sign of life, hoping beyond hope that his friend was all right.

There! Sherlock could see a blonde head bobbing in the churning river, holding on for dear life to a branch that broke off of the tree. Looking downriver, Sherlock felt his heart lurch. John was fast approaching the most treacherous part of the river, foaming rapids riddled with sharp boulders that jutted menacingly from the water.

He began to run along the cliff, looking for a way down, when he heard them. Sirens. John must have had the sense to call Lestrade. Waving them down, Sherlock moved his eyes from his friend for one second, but couldn't find him again when he looked back. The detective felt his heart stop. Surely the river hadn't swallowed him?

"Sherlock," Lestrade said once he reached the detective. "What happened? Where's John?"

Wordlessly, Sherlock pointed to the river and felt Lestrade tense up as a stream of curses flowed from his mouth. He felt himself being pulled alongside someone and shoved into the back of a car, but he was unaware of anything other than the terrified look on John's face before he fell, a look that seemed burned into his memory.

In no time at all, in all the time in the world, Sherlock found himself being pulled out of the car and onto a riverbank. Blinking, he snapped out of whatever daze he was in. He wouldn't be able to help John like this. The search team, aided by Sherlock and Lestrade, spread out on the bank, looking for any sign of John.

"Here, over here! We found him!" The call sent staggering relief and fear through Sherlock. What if he was dead? What if he had been smashed to pieces on the rocks, his blood spreading through the water slowly… No, stop it. He couldn't think like that. There was a chance that John had survived this.

Sherlock forced himself to run after Lestrade, forced himself to look at what the search team had found. John lay on his back on the bank, shivering. His skin was white and his lips were blue, but the most prominent color was red. Blood was pooling underneath the doctor, but Sherlock couldn't see where it was coming from. The paramedics tried to push him back, to let others come through, but Sherlock was having none of it. He fought as hard as he could to get to John, yelling and pleading for his doctor to wake up. He felt wetness on his face and was barely aware of the tears streaking across his cheeks.

All he was aware of was John's body, barely breathing, being loaded onto a stretcher, of that stretcher disappearing into the back of an ambulance, of Lestrade forcing him into his police car and driving behind that ambulance.

All Sherlock was aware of was the pain, the guilt, the nagging voice in the back of his mind saying _it should have been me, it should have been me._

 _Stop it,_ his brain told the voice, and he realized that it was his heart. _It wasn't our fault, that idiot decided to come up there with us._

 _But if we had listened, if we had come down he wouldn't be like this, he would still be well, still be with us…_

 _We needed that evidence,_ his brain rationalized, and the detective was aware of the glove still clutched in his fist.

His heart begged to differ, and offered one last argument. _Was it worth it?_


	2. Chapter 2

By the time they reached the hospital, Sherlock had composed himself. He had wiped his face and put back on the stoic mask he usually wore to hide his emotions. On the inside, though, he was a mess.

He wanted to sob, to scream at the injustice of it all, to curl up under his blanket and block out the rest of the world.

He wanted John. He wanted his best friend there telling him that it would be alright, wanted to feel the doctor's heartbeat and assure himself that he was alive. But he couldn't. All he could do was wait in the incredibly boring waiting room with Lestrade, hands together and placed under his chin. All he could do was replay that one moment again and again in his mind.

He didn't know how long he sat there before a nurse finally came in.

"Are you the family of John Watson?" she asked.

"Doctor," Sherlock hissed. The nurse started in surprise at the detective's hostile tone.

"I'm sorry?"

" _Doctor_ John Watson. And he has no family other than his sister, but I am his emergency contact."

Without a word Sherlock started off in the direction the nurse had come from, not even giving her time to tell them the extent of the damage done to John. The flustered woman ran to catch up and lead him and Lestrade to John's room. Along the way, he passed many people and had to forcibly shut down a part of his brain so that he wouldn't be distracted by all the information he was getting just by glancing at the people in the halls.

 _Stay focused,_ he told himself. They made three turns and went up two floors before finally reaching the right room. Sherlock entered, leaving the DI to thank the nurse, and sucked in a sharp breath.

John was lying too still for Sherlock's liking, dressed in a green gown. There was an IV attached to his arm and oxygen mask placed over his mouth and nose. His head was heavily bandaged and one of his arms was in a only thing stopping Sherlock from running over and making sure that he was alive was the constant beeping of the heart monitor.

"Oh God," Lestrade breathed when he came in a moment later. Sherlock didn't say anything, just sat in one of the chairs next to the bed and stared at his best friend, as if he could wake him up with just the power of his mind. "Sherlock, how did he end up in that river?"

The detective stiffened visibly.

"It was my fault," he muttered after a while. "I was on the Hanging Tree trying to get this bit of evidence," he held up the glove, "and the tree was coming loose. He tried to warn me but I didn't listen. So he came up to get me and the tree fell and he pushed me off."

Lestrade sucked in a breath. Sherlock didn't have to turn around to know that the DI was angry.

"Sherlock, you idiot," Lestrade said, not yelling for the sake of not waking their friend. "You always do this, why don't you ever listen to him? All this could have been avoided."

Sherlock didn't defend himself. He knew that everything the DI was telling him was true, he knew that it was all his fault. They sat in stony silence until the doctor arrived. He either didn't notice or chose to ignore the tension in the room.

"Which one of you is Dr. Watson's emergency contact?" he asked.

"I am," Sherlock stated.

"The doctor was extremely lucky that help arrived when it did. His injuries are serious, but not life threatening. He has a concussion and a broken arm, lost quite a lot of blood, and his lungs had to be drained of water, though thankfully he doesn't have hypothermia. The anesthesia should be wearing off soon. He should be fit to go home in a few days." The doctor checked the machines and IV before giving them a small smile and leaving the room.

Lestrade glared at Sherlock the entire time, eyes narrowed and hands clenched into fists. He only left the room to take a call, and even then Sherlock could feel his glare through the window in the door.

"I have to get back to the station," he said a few minutes later, sticking his head into the room. "I expect you to call me when John wakes up." And with that, he left, not even saying good-bye to the detective.

Finally alone, Sherlock let the tears fall. He grabbed John's hand and clung to it like it was the only thing keeping him alive. He was so caught up in his misery that he didn't notice that John was awake until the hand he was holding squeezed back.

The detective's head shot up and he stared at John through his tears. John offered him a weak smile which Sherlock quickly returned.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, pushing down his guilt for a moment.

"Like I fell off a cliff," John answered. He slowly pulled himself into a sitting position and carefully pulled the mask away from his face. He sucked in a small breath, testing his lungs before pulling it all the way off. Sherlock handed him the chart at the end of the bed at the doctor's request and sat nervously while he read the pages.

"Hmm," he said after a while. "I'll be fine. So, Sherlock, why are you so upset?"

The detective jumped a little at the blunt change in subject. How did John know he was upset?

"I know you are, so don't try to lie to me."

Sherlock fidgeted for a moment more before finally hanging his head.

"I'm sorry, John," he whispered. "I'm so sorry that this happened to you. It was my fault that you fell, I should have listened to you. It should have been me." Even though he whispered that last part, John still heard it and stiffened in response.

"Sherlock, it wasn't anyone's fault. Yes you were a complete git and should have listened to me about coming down, but it was my decision to climb that tree and save your ass. Don't blame yourself," he added in a softer tone. "It shouldn't have been you, that's why I took your place. You're too good for something like this to happen to you."

Sherlock smiled a little at the reassurance. He was glad that John wasnt mad at him, but the feeling of guilt was still there, although abated a lot. John, forgetting about his broken arm, attempted to sit up further. He hissed at the pain of his weight on his arm (and dizziness from his concussion, but he wasn't admitting it) and let himself fall back.

"John?" Sherlock looked at his friend with worry in his eyes.

"'m fine," the doctor said through gritted teeth. Eventually the pain seemed to have subsided and John let his eyes close. "Did you give the glove to Lestrade?" he asked.

"Of course," he said, offended that John thought he would forget something so important. A thought seemed to occur to John, and he looked at Sherlock.

"Did Lestrade come with you to the hospital?" Sherlock nodded. "Was he concerned?" Another nod. "Did he ask you to call him when I woke up?" Yet another nod, though this time the face held an expression of boredom. The world's only consulting detective couldn't be bothered to phone the DI when his friend was bed-ladden like this.

Once again reading Sherlock's mind, John sighed and took his phone off of his bedside table. His head pounded when he looked at the screen's light, so he held the phone out to Sherlock.

"Phone Lestrade and tell him I'm alright," he ordered. He could feel a headache coming on and the gash above his ear was throbbing in time to his heartbeat. Once he made sure that Sherlock was actually speaking to Lestrade, he curled up underneath the blanket and closed his eyes. He had only meant to rest them, but he soon found himself drifting off into a terrible, nightmare filled sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock ended the call and replaced John's phone on the bedside table. He just now realized that his friend had fallen asleep during his call with Lestrade. Sherlock grabbed a notepad and pen from the table and scribbled a note onto it, explaining that he was going to get some stuff from the flat in case John woke up before he returned.

Sherlock sighed heavily and walked out the door. He somehow made it out of the hospital, into a cab, and up the stairs to his flat. There, he quickly showered and grabbed some extra clothes from John's room before starting the trip back to the hospital.

He was in the cab when he got a call, and normally he would've ignored it. But then he remembered the doctor, laid up in bed in the hospital, and then he couldn't get the phone to his ear fast enough.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Sherlock," John said. He sounded like he was in pain, and Sherlock knew that he had probably refused whatever painkillers they had offered him. "While you're at the flat, can you grab me some clothes?"

"I already did, John."

"Oh. Well, thanks." Sherlock hated how surprised John sounded. Was he really that inconsiderate that John was surprised he had done something for him? "I'll see you soon, I guess. Oh, and Lestrade called. He ran the prints on the glove and found a match. It turns out that they were a match to some woman named Elizabeth Durbin. He's tracking her down now, but he said there's something wrong with the internet at the station, so the computers aren't working."

"Thank you for the update, John. I'll be there in ten minutes with your clothes, try to get some sleep until then."

"Sure, Sherlock." They both knew that John would be doing no such thing, but he said it nonetheless. Sherlock put his phone away and looked out the window. The cabbie was going extraordinarily slow and it was making him irritated.

They arrived at the hospital a good twenty minutes later, due to the driver's refusal to drive above forty miles per hour, but it felt like hours to the detective. He grabbed his bag and headed back up to John's room, surprised to see the nurse from the waiting room standing over John.

Sherlock frowned. When John was asleep, there was a certain tenseness to his features, as though he could never fully relax. Now, though, he face was slack, peaceful, and Sherlock knew that he was unconscious instead of asleep.

"What did you give him?" Sherlock asked icily. The nurse started and looked at him with an unidentifiable emotion flashing through her eyes.

"Some painkillers," she finally said. "He was in a lot of pain, so he asked me to give him an extra dose to help him sleep."

She was lying, and Sherlock knew it. John didn't react well to painkillers, he said they gave him nightmares. He would never have asked the nurse to give him anything, no matter how much pain he was in. And John wasn't asleep, he was unconscious. He looked for her nametag, but couldn't find one on her shirt.

"What's your name?" he finally asked. She looked a little surprised at the question, but she answered too quickly for her to be telling the truth.

"Emily Johnson."

Right, and Sherlock was the Virgin Mary. His suspicion had reached its peak, and he pulled out his phone behind his back, texting Lestrade without looking at the keyboard. He wanted to confront this woman, to demand that she tell him who she was and what she had to do with the murders (for she was certainly involved) but he had no idea how she might react.

John was vulnerable, and Sherlock didn't want to risk him getting hurt again. He had to get over there, to check on John and make sure she didn't give him anything poisonous, but he couldn't let her know he was onto her. So he lied.

"Well, thank you Emily," he said, feigning gratitude. "I know he must be in pain, and it was very kind of you to give him the extra dose. If you don't mind, I'd like some time alone with the doctor."

Sherlock could swear he saw a flash of smugness in her smile, but it was gone too soon for him to be sure.

"Of course!" she said, and left. Sherlock ran to John's side, checking his pulse and pupils, listening to his breathing and even checking the IV in his arm. When he was satisfied that John was okay, he sat down beside his friend and waited for him to wake up.

It took hours, but Sherlock was an expert at sitting still for long periods of time. John came to slowly, groaning and cursing under his breath. He seemed surprised to see Sherlock sitting there, though he was a little more preoccupied with removing the IV.

"Bloody nurse with her bloody sedatives in the bloody IV," he muttered as he unwound the tape and removed the needle. When the small cut was cleaned and bandaged, the doctor sat back and looked at Sherlock.

"I found out who Elizabeth Durbin is," he said at last. Sherlock gave a small smile.

"So did I." John frowned in confusion and Sherlock explained. "The nurse from the waiting room came into your room and gave you a heavy dose of sedatives, probably while you were asleep. She lied about her name and said that you requested the painkillers, which was also a lie. I texted Lestrade, and he informed me that the name she had given me was false, and that her face matched that of Elizabeth. What I want to know is why she was murdering those random people and why she was so interested in you."

"Actually, that's what I meant when I said I found out who she was. When she administered the sedatives, I was awake but pretending to be asleep. She said something about a cult called the Ivory Flowers, and assassins, and a trap for you."

Sherlock frowned. He had never heard of the Ivory Flowers, but if she was an assassin planning a trap for Sherlock, she would definitely use John. He pulled out his phone and did something that he hated doing, something that sent shivers of disgust down his side.

He phoned Mycroft.


	4. Chapter 4

"Sherlock," Mycroft's surprised voice drifted over the line, making Sherlock grit his teeth at his brother's superior tone. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"This isn't a social call, Mycroft."

On the bed, John's eyes widened when he realized that Sherlock had called his brother.

"When is it ever? What do you need, brother?"

"Information and protection."

"Protection? What have you gotten yourself into this time, Sherlock?"

"Not for me, for John." The detective ignored his friend, who was shaking his head quickly with an irritated expression on his face. "There's an assassin after me, some woman named Elizabeth Durbin. She's a part of a cult called the Ivory Flowers, and she's planning a trap and is going to use John as bait."

John's eyes narrowed at this revelation, but he didn't say anything.

"I'll have my people get right on that and send an agent to your flat."

"We're not at the flat, Mycroft. We're at Bart's Hospital."

"Why are you at the hospital? Are you hurt?"

"Calm yourself, brother, I am fine. It was John that was hurt."

The last part was a whisper, and guilt once again flared up inside of him.

"Well, send him my condolences. The agent will be there as soon as he can, so try not to kill yourselves before he gets there." The line went dead and Sherlock sighed. He would owe his brother for this, but it was worth it if it meant that John would be protected while he went to hunt down the assassin.

From what Sherlock could tell, she thinks that she had managed to trick him, meaning that she wouldn't feel the need to run for her life, and was probably still in the hospital.

"Sherlock," John's voice cut through his thoughts, and he realized that he must have been called several times before. "I don't need a bodyguard."

"John, that nurse could have killed you today, and no one would've known it was her. In a hospital, it would be too easy for her to slip you some poison, or give you a lethal dose of painkillers."

John grumbled, but didn't argue after that. There must have been some morphine left in his system, because he was asleep soon after that, leaving Sherlock with a tough decision. He could go after the fake nurse and bring her in before she managed to strike again, but that would leave John defenseless. On the other hand, he could stay with his friend and lose this chance to take down a killer.

No, what was he thinking? John was more important, and there would be other chances. So the detective settled himself into his chair and waited for Mycroft's agent to arrive.

()()()

It took the man exactly forty-seven minutes and twelve seconds to arrive. By that time, Sherlock was fuming with anger. He could've caught the murderer by now, but instead he was forced to sit and protect his friend because this idiot couldn't drive faster.

Of course, he didn't mind sitting with John and watching over him, seeing as this whole thing was his fault, but he did mind the fact that a very dangerous assassin was walking freely in a hospital. So, when the agent arrived and settled himself in front of the door, Sherlock ignored all of his attempts at being friendly and stalked out of the room.

He checked in with the front desk, but Elizabeth had already left for the day. He had to use his "borrowed" police badge to convince the secretary to tell him where she lived, and then he was in a cab, heading for the apartment the nurse was renting.

A quick search revealed that the apartment was empty, of people and furniture. The only thing testifying to the fact that someone did live there was a sleeping bag and wooden briefcase in the farthest corner.

He opened the briefcase away from his face, extremely glad that he did when a liquid that looked suspiciously like acid sprayed out of it. When it stopped, Sherlock turned the case towards him and looked inside. He found blow darts, various vials of clear liquid, and a small folded up piece of paper that turned out to be a letter.

 **Elizabeth,**

 **Your initiation has finally come, and we couldn't be more proud. You were given a very difficult person to dispose of, but we have faith that you will succeed. Here is the basic information you will need to know about your target.**

 **Name-John Hamish Watson**

 **Hair color- Blonde**

 **Eye color- Blue, Grey, Brown. Has condition called** **central heterochromia.**

 **Height- 5'6"**

 **Your target is protected by a dangerous man called Sherlock Holmes, which is the reason this is such a hard task. If you succeed, you will have proved that you are ready to fulfill your role as director of the Ivory Flowers. Be careful, be smart, and be quick.**

The note wasn't signed, but there was a stamp on the bottom of the paper, a black flower with sharp petals. After reading the note, Sherlock felt sick. He wasn't the target, John was. And he had left him alone at the hospital with no protection other than a idiotic guard. With a small gasp, Sherlock remembered something. He had forgotten to tell the guard to not let any nurses in. And he had left the window open.

()()()

While Sherlock was gone, Agent Crawford was guarding one Dr. John Watson. He stood outside the door, blocking it with his huge presence. He had been told by Mr. Holmes, and Mr. Holmes' brother to guard this man with his life. Of course he was curious, but it wasn't his place to know any of these things. So, he followed orders and protected his charge.

"Excuse me?" Agent Crawford started and looked down. A nurse was standing in front of him, holding a tray with a syringe on it. "I need to get into this room and administer these painkillers to the doctor."

Crawford had no idea what to do. He had been told to not let anyone in, but he didn't want to incur the wrath of the Holmes brothers for leaving the doctor in pain. Eventually, he let her in, not noticing the way the doctor's eyes widened slightly at the sight of her.

He didn't see Dr. Watson try to call out, only to have the nurse's hand slap over his mouth. He missed how there was a brief struggle that lasted until the sedatives kicked in. And he was oblivious to the fact that when the doctor was unconscious, the nurse dragged him over to the window and hauled him out onto the balcony, where she climbed down a rope, taking the doctor with her.

It wasn't until Crawford turned around to find a completely empty room that he realized his mistake. With shaking fingers, he brought his phone up to his ear and pressed number one on speed dial.

"What is it?" Mycroft Holmes' voice sounded in his ear. Crawford gulped and considered not telling him, but he knew that he'd be in even more trouble if he did.

"Sir, um...Dr. Watson…"

"Yes, what about Dr. Watson?"

"Sir, he's been...kidnapped."

"How?" It was only one word, but it sent shivers down the agent's spine.

"I let a nurse in...she said she had to give him painkillers...now they're both gone."

"Right. Well, you're fired. Turn in your suit and gun and never let me see your face again."

Mycroft hung up and Agent Crawford was left feeling more depressed than he had in a long time. So caught up in his own self-pity was he, that he spared not one more thought to the doctor whose life was now in the hands of one of the world's most dangerous assassins.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock raced through the halls of the hospital, not caring if he bumped into the angry patients. The only thought on his mind was John, get to John, repeating over and over in his head. Panting, he slid to a stop in front of the doctor's room and felt his blood turn to ice.

The door was open, the guard was gone, and so was John. He pulled out his phone and called Mycroft while searching the room for clues. He had found the syringe and rope tied to the balcony before his brother had even picked up.

"Sherlock, we're looking for him," Mycroft said when he picked up. He sounded a little flustered and...concerned? How strange.

"You knew?!" Sherlock was irate. "Why didn't you call me as soon as that incompetent guard let my best friend get kidnapped by an assassin?!"

There was silence on the other end of the line. "I thought the assassin was after you."

"We all did, but apparently we were wrong."

"Calm down, Sherlock. We'll save him. I think I know where he is, anyhow."

"You do?"

"Yes, I had my people do a little digging on the Ivory Flowers, and apparently they have a headquarters in London."

"Where?"

"Wait until my agents get there, we don't know-"

"Where, Mycroft? Don't make me ask again."

Mycroft sighed heavily and Sherlock could envision his pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. "It's a boarding school called Luckley House School. As far as we know, it's a training compound for their recruits. I know it's futile to try to stop you, so be careful. And at least take that Detective Inspector with you."

Sherlock didn't reply, just hung up and dialed Lestrade. He knew his brother was right, it would be suicide to try to take on an entire assassins guild by himself.

"What is it, Sherlock?" Lestrade said by way of greeting, sounding still a little angry.

"John's been kidnapped by assassins and I need backup." Sherlock said, heading towards the front of the hospital.

"What?! Where are you?"

"I'm at the hospital, but I'm heading to Luckley House School. Mycroft said that it's one of their headquarters."

"Alright, Sherlock, we'll meet you there. Don't do anything stupid."

"When have I ever done anything stupid?" Sherlock hung up before Lestrade could reply, smirking to himself. He made it out of the hospital and flagged down a taxi. "Luckley House School, quickly."

Sherlock stared out of the window as the cabbie sped away, wondering if John was alright. The detective had met many assassins, and all of them preferred to kill their victims quickly and leave town. Why would this one be any different? What possessed her to kidnap her victim instead of just killing him?

Sherlock was shaken out of his thoughts when his phone beeped. Looking down, he saw a text from Mycroft with information on the Ivory Flowers. Skimming it, he filed away important information in his mind palace.

There were only three pieces of information that Sherlock actually deemed important. One, the Ivory Flowers were known to go after well-protected or hard to get to people for their initiation. Two, there was a ceremony that had to be performed before the actual killing. And three, the ceremony must be performed under the ivory light of a full moon.

Luckily, the full moon wouldn't be rising for a few hours so Sherlock had some time to meet up with Lestrade and come up with a plan. Unluckily, he had no idea how him and a bunch of stupid policemen were going to rescue John from inside a rather large building filled with assassins. Ah, well, he'd cross that bridge when he came to it.

()()()

John blinked slowly. He held back a groan and shifted his position to alleviate some of the strain on his broken arm. Looking around in the semi-darkness, he could see he was in some sort of dungeon. There was only one small window that allowed in the light of the moon.

He figured that the assassin hadn't given him a large dose of sedatives as he hadn't been out for more than an hour. But he was worried. He didn't have his gun, and all of his military training wasn't going to help him if he could hardly move from pain and dizziness.

He dragged himself up till he was leaning heavily against the wall and fought the nausea that threatened to overtake him. Everything hurt. His arm had been pinned underneath him for a while, his head wound throbbed, and his concussion wasn't making anything easier.

He was in no condition to rescue himself, so he had to hope that Sherlock would find him. He searched around his pocket and his eyes widened when he realized that they'd left him his phone. Turning it on with hope filling him, he nearly cried with relief when he got a signal.

Composing himself so as not to worry his friend by sounding scared or hurt, he called Sherlock.

()()()

Sherlock, Lestrade, and a large number of police officers were waiting outside the school. the place was enormous, more like a small castle than a place of learning. John had been missing for almost an hour and Sherlock was getting worried. They had scouted every inch of the outside of the school and had found no way inside.

They had split up, and were waiting by every entrance they had found. Mycroft had said that the ritual had to be performed under the light of the full moon, so they thought it safe to assume that it would be taking place outside.

Any mention of the ritual gave Sherlock a bad feeling in his stomach that had nothing to do with the fact that he hadn't eaten in two days. What kind of twisted things would they do to John during this ritual?

Once again, Sherlock was shocked out of his thoughts by his phone. It wasn't his brother calling him this time, though, it was John. Sherlock couldn't hit 'accept' quickly enough.

"John, are you alright? Where are you? What have they done to you?" Sherlock fired question after question without giving John a chance to answer them.

"Sherlock, calm down," John said. "I'm fine, I'm in a dungeon or something. I haven't seen any of them yet, but I'm pretty sure that there's a guard. Oh, shit, someone's coming. I have to go, I'll call you later if I can."

"John? John!" But the call had already disconnected. Sherlock turned to Lestrade, who was watching him with narrowed eyes. "He said he's in some sort of dungeon and that there was a guard. Someone came and he had to disconnect the call."

The DI nodded and turned to one of his men.

"Go see if there's a basement entrance."

"Yes, sir."

The officer came back ten minute later, saying that he couldn't find anything remotely like a cellar or basement, but that there was movement spotted inside. Lestrade's walkie-talkie beeped to life and an urgent voice came through.

"Sir, they've brought out the doctor. We need immediate backup in the field behind the building."

"Got it, hang tight until we arrive. All unite report to the back of the house, now."

Sherlock had already began running before Lestrade could even speak. He could hear the others running behind him, but he didn't slow down. He had to get to John.

He was very out of breath when he arrived at the field, though he soon forgot about that when he saw John. The doctor was dressed in a jumper and slacks and was being held up by two men, and more surrounded him. His eyes were glazed and his head wound was bleeding again, which would definitely not help his concussion.

Standing in front of him were two women, one being the nurse from the hospital and the other a stern looking old woman with a polished black cane. Lestrade and his men finally caught up and crouched behind Sherlock. They could only just barely hear what was being said.

"You have done well in capturing your target," said the old woman to Elizabeth. "Before you make the kill, the cleansing ritual must be performed. Prepare your blade."

Elizabeth pulled out a small dagger from a sheath on her belt and moved over to where John was. He tried to pull back but the men holding him pushed him to his knees roughly. Elizabeth pulled one of John's wrists forward and poised her knife above it. The old woman spoke again.

"With this dagger, drain the unclean blood from this man and ready his body for the kill."

Beside him, Lestrade whispered something urgently into his walkie-talkie, and a small red dot appeared on each of the men and the two women. They all gasped and looked angrily around, though Elizabeth didn't move the knife from John's wrist.

Sherlock strolled casually out of the cover of the trees, his face a mask of indifference.

"I believe that you have my blogger," he said. The old woman smiled.

"Yes, I do," she said. "And he is about to be the kill that creates the greatest director the Ivory Flowers has ever seen."

Elizabeth straightened at the praise and pressed the knife against John's wrist, making a thin trickle of blood run down his arm. By that time, the concussion and the drugs must have become too much, for the doctor was completely out of it. He didn't even open his eyes when the knife cut his skin.

"I'm afraid I can't let that happen," Sherlock said, motioning to Lestrade behind his back. Tranquilizer darts burst into existence in the necks of all the men. They crumpled to the ground, leaving the old woman, Elizabeth, and Sherlock the only ones standing. "You see, I would be lost without my blogger. So if you would kindly give him to me, I'll be on my way."

Elizabeth laughed. "I don't think so," she said with a heavy Russian accent. "This is my chance to prove myself, to fulfill my destiny and become the director of the Ivory Flowers. I won't let some over-dramatic Englishman ruin that for me."

And before anyone could stop her, she sliced open John's arm.


	6. Chapter 6

Thick red blood gushed out and the unconscious doctor slumped to the ground. Elizabeth reached into her belt and pulled out a syringe full of bright green liquid. _Poison,_ Sherlock realized. Lestrade's men shot two more darts and both women were on the ground, but Sherlock didn't notice.

He only saw John lying in a puddle of his own blood, pale and in pain. Then he was running, no, sprinting to his side. He slid to his knees at John's side and turned him over gently. Sherlock pulled off his scarf and wrapped it around John's arm tightly, trying to stop the bleeding. He didn't worry about the head wound, it had already stopped bleeding.

He pressed harder against the slash on his arm and John gasped awake. He hissed in pain and grabbed onto Sherlock's coat.

"Hang on, John," he said, though he wasn't sure if John could even hear him. "The paramedics are on their way."

John just groaned in pain and squeezed his unfocused eyes shut. His broken arm was bearing the brunt of his weight and Sherlock slipped one arm underneath John;s and helped him sit up to alleviate the pressure. Blood was soon soaking Sherlock's scarf, but he just pressed harder.

John had passed out by the time the paramedics arrived, and Sherlock watched with tunnel vision as they lifted the doctor onto a stretcher and bandaged his arm professionally. He got into the back of the ambulance and held back his tears as they bandaged his head and arm, checked his pulse and pupils.

The gash had stopped gushing by the time they reached the hospital, though John had lost much more before from the wound on his head. He was taken into the ICU, and Sherlock once again found himself in a waiting room. This time, he didn't have Lestrade with him as the DI had to take care of the arrests of all the assassins found at the boarding school.

Hours later, a nurse came out and told him that John had been stabilized, though he needed to stay at the hospital for a few days. She led Sherlock to a different room than before, this one farther away from the noise of the hospital. Sherlock thanked the nurse- Wouldn't John be proud of his manners?- and once more Sherlock sat by John's bed.

He had an IV in his arm, and his damaged cast had been replaced. The bandages on his head and arm were much more secure and neat. Sherlock flipped through the chart at the foot of his bed, looking for something.

He finally found what he was looking for, and felt his eyes widen in surprise when he read how much sedative the doctors had found in John's blood. It was a miracle that he had even been awake when the assassins had done their ritual.

The doctor would be asleep for at least a few more hours, so Sherlock went back to Baker Street to take a quick shower and find some food. Now that the case was over, he could eat again and the ache in his empty stomach wouldn't let him think otherwise.

He was heading out the door after his shower when Mrs. Hudson appeared, arms laden with huge containers of food. She insisted that he share this with John, as "hospital food is one of the most evil things this world has come up with".

Back at the hospital, Sherlock was finally able to relax. He was clean, full, and John was no longer in danger. He leaned his head back in his chair and closed his eyes, drifting off into a deep sleep.

()()()

John was very groggy when he woke up. His head hurt, his arms hurt, and his eyes hurt from the too bright lights. He closed his eyes and let his mind settle before trying again. This time, his eyes adjusted quickly though his head and arms still hurt.

He looked around and saw that he was in a hospital room. He frowned. Why was he in the hospital? He thought back, trying to remember, and then all the memories hit him at once. He remembered getting kidnapped, the dungeon, talking to Sherlock… Sherlock! Was he okay?

John looked around frantically for his phone so he could call his friend when his eyes landed on something. In the corner of the room, sitting in a chair and fast asleep, was Sherlock. John froze for a moment, the sight so foreign to him that his brain shut down for a moment.

When he was able to think again, John smiled. Quietly he got out of bed and carefully changed out of his hospital gown and into comfortable clothes, mindful of the IV in his arm. He got back into his bed and found a few containers on his bedside table. Closer examination revealed Mrs. Hudson's cooking!

Sending out a silent thank you to Mrs. Hudson, John found a fork and started eating right out of the large bowls. Even cold, it was the best thing he had tasted in a while. When he had eaten his fill, he replaced the lid on the containers and sat back in bed.

His eyes felt heavy and he figured that there must still be traces of that sedative in his system. That, combined with the concussion and massive blood loss, meant that he would be at Bart's for a while. John didn't mind, though. From the looks of Sherlock, he had already showered and eaten, yet he was still here. That meant that he wouldn't be leaving John alone anytime soon.

Comforted by this thought, the blogger closed his eyes and drifted back to sleep.

 **Hello, my Lovelies! Thanks for all the positive support I've been getting for this story and my others. I just wanted to let you guys know that I'm postponing the Supernatural high school AU for a few days, as I've gotten a request for a story. Requests come first, so I'm going to finish that before I start the high school AU.**

 **The requested story is going to be called Compromised, and the high school one I'm naming Feathers. Keep a look out for them, I should be finished with Compromised by next Friday at the latest, and Feathers will be coming out soon after. Sorry for the delay, and thank you guys so much for all of the reviews, follows, and favorites!**

 **Peace out, boys and girls!**


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